Tomb Raider 3: The Revenge of Terry Sheridan
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: Good thing for Terry he was killed in the Cradle of Life... now he has a chance for revenge. Will he take it? Or will he get sidetracked by his reflection in a mirror? Read and review if you want a laugh.
1. Default Chapter

Something I felt obliged to write after my extreme crush on Gerard Butler forced me to sit through "Lara Croft, Tomb Raider: Cradle of Life." I thought the ending was a total betrayal of Terry's character— if it was normal for him to go around hitting women they should have mentioned it earlier on. Anyway, don't lynch me— tongue firmly in cheek.

* * *

— He lay on the rocks, eyes half open. The amount of blood slowly congealing around him, as well as the fact that he wasn't breathing, proclaimed him irrevocably dead.

Or perhaps— _not_ irrevocably.

While alive, he had been handsome, tall, Scottish, and stacked. He had a sense of humour and gave females something to stare at. Some stupid writer had decided he must die— probably out of jealousy. He shouldn't have died. He didn't _have_ to die.

He wouldn't have even hit Croft if it hadn't been in the script.

He was dead.

But this was the Cradle of Life.

And the characters had passed, however briefly, into the damp, twitching hands of fan-fiction authors— one in particular.

Something happened—

Life flowed back. He breathed.

He breathed.

He choked on the blood in his throat, spat it out, sat up and wheezed.

His eyes, when he opened them, were blue that turned slowly to red as he thought over what he remembered of his death.

His teeth clenched.

"Croft—"

She had shot him. Everything had faded to black, there was a brief mental flirtation with a partial cast of Looney Tunes, and then the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, and then nothing. Death.

"_Croft_—"

He struggled to his feet and looked down at himself, the usual cadence of "_God, I'm sexy_" running unacknowledged through his reanimated mind. Apart from that, he felt nothing other than a burning desire for revenge.

Revenge against the writer who ordered his demise.

Revenge against the director who oversaw the whole thing.

Revenge against Croft who had carried out the execution.

He would have his revenge.

But first—

He looked down at himself again.

First he had to find some duct tape or something to bind the gaping hole in his stomach, lest he frighten the locals.

Stomach.

What a place to shoot someone. Especially when he had such a nice one.

Stomach.

He probably wouldn't be able to eat any haggis for at least a week.

Stumbling occasionally and murmuring obscure Scottish curses to himself, he began to make his way back to the real world.

* * *

So what do you think? Like it or leave it? Turn it into a Tomb-Raider-bashing farce or go away and forget about it? Or, possibly, rip it to shreds, burn it, and bury the ashes at midnight in a deep hole in the middle of a forest— anyway its up to you. Review and let me know. 


	2. Flashback: I Need Terry Sheridan

Wow, the response to this was amazing! I know, so seven isn't exactly a lot of reviews, but that's darn good for a first chapter, when you look at my record. Thanks for the vote of confidence from all of you.

**Nikoru Sanzo**— legend has it most Scottish cuisine was based on a dare. (now where did I steal that line from again?) Including haggis. (shudder)

**sophie**— yay, another Gerard fan.... lots of those around these days, aren't there? Thanks for the vote....

**FINVARRA**— totally agree he shouldn't have died. Got very irritated when he did and would have broken something except.... I'm not really that kind of person. :)

**Ayan Syria**— thanks for the vote of confidence, glad you like my funnies... which lets face it is pretty much everything except for the Phantom phic....

**Darlian**— ooh, I love it when people say I'm hilarious! It doesn't happen nearly often enough. I don't exactly hate the Tomb Raider movies (I don't care that much) and really I appreciate any movie with Gerard Butler in it— they're pretty good popcorn flicks. This from a person who has like four "Van Helsing" fics.... (another stupid-but-entertaining movie)

**Lady Lara Croft**— thanks for the review! Here's the next chapter.

**Shauniwritesit**— (love your penname btw) Glad you like it.

Random thought: Hmm— the spell-checker recognizes "Croft" and "Gimli" (as I know from my LOTR fic) but not the British version of "favourite." Briefly, because my mind is wandering, Gerard Butler walks across the room shirtless, followed by a squirrel.

Chapter Two: Flashback: I Need Terry Sheridan

She used to say that a lot, usually for a different reason. They had met during a special ops mission, where she immediately attracted his attention by attempting to shoot him repeatedly in the head.

He dodged and she shot him in the foot instead.

The rest was history.

Later, after a fair-to-middling intense make-out session, she sighed and said, "Agent Sheridan—"

"Please, call me Terry."

"_Terry_?" The look on her face suggested that she was seriously reconsidering the desirability of their relationship. "Your name is _Terry_?"

"Terence, if you prefer." The snort with which she greeted this made him frown. "What's wrong with my name?"

"Terence? Terence 'Terry' Sheridan?" she repeated.

"Yeah, so?"

"Honestly, could you _get_ anymore _Queer Eye for the Straight Guy_?"

He let go of her and stood up. "Well, when you come to terms with the sheer unadulterated metrosexuality of my name and appearance, please don't hesitate to jump off a cliff."

"What? Sorry, I didn't catch that."

He stood and started re-buttoning his shirt, glaring at her.

"No, really, I didn't understand you. Its that thick Scottish accent. That's why I tried to shoot you when we first met, you know. I've known too many Scotsmen."

"Yeah, I'll bet you have," Sheridan grumbled at his shirtfront.

"I heard that."

"I thought you couldn't understand because my accent is too thick," he jibed.

"I understood _that _part."

"Are you trying to tell me that you only understand insults?"

"What?"

He sighed deeply and looked down at himself. "God, I'm sexy," he said quietly. He looked up. "Do you have a mirror around here somewhere?"

Later, after they'd gotten everything straightened out somewhat, he told her he loved her.

She squinted at him. "What?"

Later than that, much later, he betrayed her and his country because, as he explained—

"They waved shiny things at me! Bright, shiny things!"

"What?"

He got a bit fed up.

"You're a moron!"

"How dare you!"

Now, as Sheridan crests the hill and looks over the bleak wasteland that the locals had optimistically called "The Cradle of Life" (perhaps in the hope that a developer would move in on it, plant some nice, un-freaky trees, put up a few condos) he thinks back on his relationship with Croft. He knows, in his heart, it was something special.

Mostly because, with the extraordinary prominence of Croft's lips, and Sheridan's own Scottish pout, they were actually able to kiss each other at a distance of up to three feet. They'd been invited on Letterman to demonstrate. Croft had said no because she thought it would compromise their covert status. Sheridan said no because he wanted to go on Conan O'Brian. Conan said he didn't want 'em. Sheridan tried to do something about this, but was prevented by Croft, who persuaded him to put the gun down. The sheer sexiness of Sheridan with a gun proved too much for her, and they kissed, demonstrating once more the usefulness of the Scottish pout, and causing Conan to observe that Croft had a tongue like a Great Dane. This in turn caused Letterman to invite them back on in his "Stupid Pet Tricks" segment, which insulted both Croft and Sheridan very much, and that was the _real_ reason Dave spent all that time in the hospital.

There had been good times, and there had been bad.

In the end, there just hadn't been enough mirrors.


	3. Mercenary Diaries 2: Royal Wedding

Whoo, practically my fastest update ever! I must be extremely bored! Hope you guys are still reading this... oh by the way I'm thinking of changing the title of this insanely stupid fic— When I made up this chapter title I fell in love with the idea of a "Mercenary Diaries" kind of thing... so maybe I'll switch "Revenge of TS" to the other... then again, maybe I won't. You can tell me what you think but (ahem) its not like that'll make any difference. :)

Nikoru Sanzo: the Scottish Pout is pretty famous. So much so I hear Gerry's lips are lobbying for their own film career, since he keeps doing such crap movies (except "Phantom" of course...)

Sophie: really? The first time? Wow. Anyway the shirtless-and-a-squirrel thing kind of schlepped over from my Van Helsing fics. They actually belong to David Wenham, but he loaned them to the Scotsman because he's a nice guy. Also he's afraid of squirrels. And, uh, doesn't like going shirtless.

Darlian: Yes, I am, thank you (takes a bow) If you come up with a more appropriate word than "hilarious" please don't hesitate to inform my ego. She'll be very pleased. :)

Shauniwritesit: pretty fast, huh? (Does Hugh Jackman's one-eyebrow thing)

RogueCajun: (what's up, kid?) I'm beginning to wonder what kind of fatalistic character Gerard Butler is— he keeps taking on movie roles in which he gets killed. I just watched "Reign of Fire" last night, with him and Mr. Matthew "Gag Me With A Spoon" McConaghei (wait, how do you spell that bugger's name again? Oh well, heroic efforts and all that) and wisely turned it off as soon as Gerry died... sniff... I love Creedy...

Nickless: (which nick are you missing, exactly?) Love it when I get new readers... please return and read on!

Chapter Three: Mercenary Diaries 2: Royal Wedding

After some local glad-handing as he was recognized as the Sexiest Man Ever To Come Back From The Cradle Of Life Alive (Within Reason) (SMETCBFTCOLAWR), Sheridan attempted to hire a private jet but was prevented, first by the fact that he had no money with which to do the hiring, and secondly that when he said, "Private jet," to the local shaman, Henry, Henry put his hand to his ear and said, "Beg your pardon?"

"Curse this adorable Scottish accent of mine!" railed Sheridan at the sky, drew his gun, and then realized that he didn't actually have one. He stared at his empty hand for a minute, then rallied and pointed a finger at Henry. Croft must have taken his gun after she killed him— "Curse Croft as well!" he shouted as an afterthought.

"Sorry, didn't understand a word you said," said Henry serenely.

Sheridan nudged the finger at him.

Henry stared at it, and then with great ceremony took it in his left hand and shook it. "How do you do," he said, solemnly.

Sheridan dropped his hand, ran the other one through his hair, ran his hand through his hair again, ran his hand through his hair again, closed his eyes, ran his hand through his hair again, ran both hands through his hair— "Bloody Croft," he thought, "how could she resist this? Wouldn't the world be a lot easier, a lot more peaceful, if instead of shooting people we just ran our hands through their hair? Admittedly some people's hair is so greasy it would only aggravate the situation, but fortunately I have never had that problem— I wonder if there's a mirror around here somewhere?" Aloud, he said, "I have got to find some way of raising some money."

"Sorry," said Henry, who still didn't understand. "Did you say raisins?"

By some strenuous and imaginative sign language, Sheridan managed to impress upon the man that he wished to get the heck out of there so he could go and enact his revenge on the woman who shot him, and also on the writer who decided she would, and the director who enforced his obscene will on the public. By speaking calmly in clear, understandable English, Henry informed him that there was no way he could ever make enough money to escape the tiny little backwater scenic craphole they lived in unless he, say, sold off his body for medical research.

"But," said Sheridan, "I'm still using my body."

"Lots of other people would like to, however," said Henry.

"Yeah, well, I'm quite used to that, but really I think that bullet I took to the stomach messed up my insides a bit— it's doubtful anyone would find it at all functional."

"Sorry, didn't catch that," said Henry serenely.

Sheridan sighed deeply and went to find a pen and paper. This took him a great deal of time and by the time he got back Henry had apparently forgotten what they were talking about. This made Sheridan very mad and he shot Henry with his finger. This had no effect whatsoever, and so he settled for clubbing him senseless with it instead.

Then he sighed deeply and went to find someone else to talk to.

He'd not gone five steps (four and three quarters, to be exact) when a hand seized him around the wrist and spun him around. To his secret delight, the hand was attached to a body instead of just randomly floating around in the air. The owner of the hand was a wizened old woman with three nostrils and a gimpy leg.

"Ew," said Sheridan reflectively.

"I beg your pardon?" said the old woman. Her nostrils flared and Sheridan ducked.

"I mean, hi," he said from his position crouched on the ground. "What can I do for you?"

"I heard you say something about raisins."

Sheridan sighed, not for the first time. "No, I said I needed to _raise_ some _money_."

"Money? Well, why didn't you say so?"

"I did say so!"

The lady froze and her nostrils twitched. Sheridan cowered on the ground. "Oh, that's right. Well, why wasn't I listening?"

"You are, perhaps, a very bad eavesdropper?"

"Of course not!" she said huffily. "I am the best eavesdropper in this entire village! Admittedly we only have a population of thirty-three— but that, dear sir, is beside the point."

"I should hope so."

"And so you would like to make some money?"

Sheridan leaned in. "Yes," he said, over-dramatically.

The old woman leaned in as well. "Would you like me to tell you how you can?" she whispered secretively.

Sheridan leaned in some more. "Not," he whispered back, "if it involves selling various body parts on the black market. I want revenge, but not that much."

"Oh no, oh no, oh no, its not that, not that at all. My way involves something rather different."

"What, exactly?" asked Sheridan, suspiciously.

"It's a simple process, payment upon delivery, and as soon as your contract is up you can take the money and run for all I care. There's little risk involved, and great potential for enjoyment provided you play your cards right. You'd better take the offer soon, though, there's others vying for the same position."

Sheridan stared deep into her eyes.

"Alright," he said.

And that was how he found himself added to a local girl's harem.

He thought it was quite ridiculous, and he was correct.


	4. Miscellaneous Mirages and Squiggly Lines...

Hi guys, I'm back. Its been a bit, I had an excuse, which I'm not going to bore you with now, but anyway read and review and share and enjoy!

Chapter Four: Miscellaneous Mirages and Squiggly Lines on the Horizon

Sheridan rocketed out of the clay hut at full tilt. Tripping unexpectedly over a rock, he fell— rather than let that slow him up he shuffled backwards on his bottom, seeking only to get as far away from his new wife as possible.

The size of the woman— it was incredible!

He couldn't do it.

Not only would he certainly without doubt be crushed on the— he shuddered— honeymoon, he'd probably be eaten as well.

Ah well, he had the money in his pocket, and he wasn't a turn-coat mercenary for nothing.

Stumbling to his feet, he ran for it.

As he escaped the village on foot, behind him he heard vague shouts that he didn't like the sound of at all— fervently he hoped that didn't come back to haunt him someday.

After several hours jogging along the African countryside, he finally sighted his first sign of civilization since leaving the village— quite unexpectedly, it was a McDonalds.

He stopped, stood and stared at it for a minute, dumbfounded. Then he began to curse his bad luck. Obviously, anyplace with air conditioning would be welcome at this point, but couldn't he have found someplace with food that would be on his diet?

He shook his head and headed for it anyway. Sure enough, the greasy smell of the week-old fries bubbling in a vat of engine oil got his duct-taped stomach curiously excited— he patted it reassuringly as it crept nervously around his inside.

He opened the door and stepped inside. It was just as hot inside as out, and smelled worse to boot. He swallowed and forced himself to go up to the counter.

"Excuse me," he said to the person with the alarmingly fake smile who stood there, "can I get a water, please?"

"No," said the person with the alarmingly fake smile, "sorry."

"What? Why not?"

"Because this is a mirage," she said simply. "We do serve sand, sir, but that's all, I'm afraid."

Sheridan frowned at her and she shivered slightly with the grandeur of it. Then he squinted at the restaurant, to use the word loosely, around him. "It looks real to me," he said dubiously.

"Well, even so, it is a mirage, sir."

"But aren't mirages those little squiggly lines on the horizon?"

"No, sir, those are heat waves."

He squinted at her. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, of course. I am a mirage expert, I ought to know the difference between them and heat waves."

"If you're a mirage expert," he demanded suspiciously, "then why are you working at McDonald's?"

"Because," she said, her smile not wavering for a moment, "it's a mirage."

"Ah." He sighed deeply. "And if I just stay here and talk to you—"

"Eventually you'll die of heat and lack of water," she said. "That's right, sir."

"I see." He frowned in renewed suspicion. "How do I know you're a mirage? I mean, can you— change form or something?"

"I don't do party tricks," she said, her smile now looking a little fixed. "But if I weren't a mirage, how on earth do you think I'd be able to understand your thick Scottish accent?"

"Ah. You've got a point there."

"Of course," she agreed smoothly.

He frowned a bit more and chewed his lower lip. "Got a mirror around here somewhere?"

"Only a mirage one."

"That'll do."

"In the restroom."

He went into the restroom and located the mirror by dint of looking for it. He approached it a bit warily— after so long in the desert, who knew what the heat would do to his smooth, supple Celtic skin— and steeled himself to look in it.

An apparition looked back at him.

He yelled in alarm, then realized the apparition was Croft.

She stepped out of the mirror and stood before him.

"I hear you're coming to kill me," she said conversationally, whipping her long ponytail around like helicopter blades. He ducked.

"Yes," he said, "but it's nothing personal. Or rather, it is. Very personal. But you shouldn't feel bad about it. I mean, I'd like you to. I intend to inflict some serious pain on you before you die. But really I don't mean anything by it. I just hate you."

"Are you sure?" she said.

"No. Yes. Maybe."

"Is the heat making you indecisive, or are you normally like this?"

"No. Maybe. Yes. I don't know."

She sighed deeply and said, "Very well then, I don't see that we have anything further to say to each other." So saying, her hair rotated faster, stronger, and, with a sound like a freight train, lifted her into the air and carried her away. McDonald's melted away around Sheridan, leaving him alone in the desert, determined not to cry, but feeling a bit neglected.

Luckily, at that moment, a small two-passenger airplane landed for a moment.

He thought it was another mirage and ignored it, and it wasn't until the passenger in the back seat jumped out and shouted at him, and then tackled him, that he paid it any attention.

And then it took another few minutes to get him to realize that he was in fact, not walking across the desert, but was sitting on someone's lap in a seriously overweight airplane that was elderly and doddering to begin with, in imminent danger of crashing in the middle of nowhere, and so perhaps he wasn't much better off anyway.

They got him, in time, to a larger airport, where he spent a day or two in someone's house, in someone's bed, raving to himself about squirrels and offensive hamburgers. It didn't make much sense to him, and seriously disturbed the occupants of the house, most of whom had to go in for extensive counseling.

Such is life.

Sheridan's, anyway.


	5. Fun With Angels

**Doodily-do**: or else what? You'll kill Terry off again? Okay, I'm updating, alright? Look!

**Andrea Christoph**: Yes, you must. And you must review the rest as well.

**Grace**: hey, you read my VH fics? Wow... brave of you!

**Ayan Syria**: I know, the last chapter was pretty stupid... I keep trying to be insane, but reality bogs me down a bit, sometimes... hope this one re-ups the bar... that sounded rude, didn't it?

**Bloodcandy**: AKA Sophie, I like to make fun of McDonalds, because they have the worst food in the world... and the squirrels seem to follow me around...

**Lady Lara Croft**: Glad that you like it and its making you laugh! Lara is going to show up pretty soon... (checks watch) aaaany minute now...

**Weapon of Choice**: (hello again) Yes he is! He's been in so many crappy movies I have lost count! And the really bad thing is... I've seen most of them, and I own one of them! Aaack! Can't wait for "Phantom" to come out on DVD... the first good Gerry movie... hope it isn't the last (thinks hopefully of "Beowulf" and "Burns" and "Dear Frankie" and "Game of their Lives"... man, Gerry's getting popular, isn't he?)

**Nickless**: I agree, no excuses. Except the dog ate my computer...

**Circe Rose**: I think I'm going to marry Terry off again a few times... that should be fun... (evil giggle)

Okay peeps, read and review! And please forgive me for calling you peeps!

**Chapter Five: Fun With Angels**

Sheridan opened his eyes, which were almost aggressively blue. The first thing to swim into his misty sight was an African death-mask, which scared him rather badly and also made him think this was not a good sign.

The door opened and a young woman came in. She was impossibly skinny and not at all attractive. She was also wearing a halo.

Sheridan bit his lip.

"Am I dead?" he asked quietly.

"What?" said the young woman, in perfect English. "Oh. No." She took the halo off her head and put it on a bedside table, which he hadn't noticed before. "No, no, I just like to wear that. Keeps the rain off. Not very well," she admitted, "but some."

She seemed to be expecting an answer to this, so he said, "Ah. I see," even though he didn't. "Can I," he went on, "see about getting out of here? I've got a date with Vengeance on another continent. This is still Africa, isn't it?"

She shrugged. "It was the last time I looked. Hang on a second, I'll check." She strode to the window and peered out. "Giraffes, lions, other exotic animals, huge trees, rolling plains, raging AIDS epidemic— yep, its Africa all right."

Sheridan laughed. "Well if nothing else I like your sense of humour."

She looked at him with a face like stone. "That was humour?" she inquired. "I ask merely for information."

"Why do you really wear a halo?"

"I'm what they call an angel. I tend people that no one else will bother with, no matter how good looking they are."

"Well, angel," said Sheridan softly. "Is there anything I can do to repay you?"

She was quietly succumbing to his manly whiles when suddenly he noticed his money was sitting on the table next to him.

"Never mind," he said quickly, "I don't need to after all." Lurching up out of bed he grabbed the money and ran for it.

Half of the money saw him on a plane to England, by way of France.

He prayed and prayed that that wasn't actually a bad omen, and was just a bad decision on the pilot's part.

He was wanted in France.

Wanted very, very, very badly.

He could see himself now, telling his grandchildren about the experience—

"France was very interesting," he would say, a far-away look in his eye. "I behaved very oddly there."

If you could call blowing up the Prime Minister's mistresses' doghouse "interesting."

Well—

He rather thought he could.

Unbeknownst to him, on the flight immediately behind his, there were about twelve head-hunters, out for blood. Specifically the blood of a Scotsman who had welshed on a flesh-debt and marriage vows—

Thankfully for Sheridan's peace of mind, he had no idea about the headhunters. As far as he knew, the only thing after him was—

Well—

The Prime Minister's mistress. And, probably, her dog.

But all that would be sorted out in time. Right now he needed to concentrate on finding Croft. Where would she be? France itself? Africa, where he'd just come from? America, where Hollywood was? Canada, where people were frighteningly nice? Brazil, where the nuts came from?

Or even— at her home?

Now, there was an odd idea. But Croft had always delighted in surprising him.

Her home it would be, then. If he managed to escape France without meeting up with the Prime Minister's French Poodle— and her little dog, too.

He stopped a passing stewardess and flashed her his best grin. She responded to it, melting through the floor and falling out of the plane. Sheridan heaved a sharp sigh— he'd overdone it again— he caught another stewardess and tried a wink instead. This worked better, though she did trip over her drinks carriage and broke her ankle.

"Sorry," said Sheridan, looking down at her, "but do you happen to have a full-length mirror anywhere on board?"

"Absolutely!" said the stewardess, hauled herself off the floor and hobbled away down the corridor. She returned after a moment with the biggest mirror she could find and set it down in front of Sheridan, then looked at him expectantly.

He looked at her.

She smiled hopefully and bit her lip.

"Oh, alright," said Sheridan, "but you might want to get a parachute on first."

Five seconds later, another stewardess had melted through the interior of the plane, faring rather better than the first one, who had to rely on the voluminousness of her dress to slow her landing.

Sheridan himself settled back in his seat and peered pleasedly at the mirror. He'd have to watch himself. This guy, he noted, should come with a warning label.


	6. The Inexplicable Ending

A/N: Sorry this took so long to complete! Got a bit sidetracked. Anyway, enjoy the ending!

Chapter Six

He woke up suddenly, with a surprised and painful start, as though someone had just stuck a pin in his bum.

Blinking confusedly around him, gradually his blurred vision cleared and he realized that someone had just stuck a pin in his bum. The purpose of this exercise was yet to be understood, thought probably it had at least some small thing to do with waking Sheridan up. He grunted fitfully and clapped a hand to his irritated rear, which is actually a phrase I never thought I'd use. Granted I never thought of it till now, but even so the sentiment holds true.

Gradually and with much fuss, Sheridan got to his feet. It was only after he took in the fact that he was naked from the waist up and didn't have much on even then that he realized that who it was that had stuck him with the pen.

He grunted.

"Croft."

"Actually," said the woman, tilting her head to one side and looking at him with alarmingly-blue eyes, "I'm her twin sister."

Sheridan blinked at her. "Really?"

"Of course not, you moron. I'm an only child— how else do you think I inherited all my money when Mummy and Daddy died?"

Sheridan frowned and waved a shaking finger vaguely in her direction. "I thought you just said you were a twin?" Croft just shook her head at him and settled further into her seat, relaxing against the wicker back. "Wait a minute," Sheridan rumbled thickly. "How'd I get here? How'd you get here? Where is here? Who are you? Who am I? What is our purpose in life and how do we fulfill it?"

Croft gazed at him levelly. "Such philosophy from a man with a hangover is truly impressive."

"Hangover? Oh, God," Sheridan groaned, and sank backwards onto what he thought was his bed but which turned out, after he'd banged his head, to be a thin sheet of cardboard over some cement. "What's good for a hangover?"

"Drinking heavily the night before," said Croft coolly, staring at him. Sheridan glared at her.

"Stop staring at me, you're beginning to creep me out."

"I can't help it," Croft purred, "you're just so lovely."

"Well, yes," admitted Sheridan, "there is that. But tell me. How did we both end up here?"

"You probably didn't notice," said Croft, "but you've been pursued by several people for the past several chapters."

"Didn't notice, no."

"You were probably too busy staring in mirrors."

"More than likely. Go on."

"Well, these people— the people who were pursuing you, you ken—"

"I ken."

"These people had finally caught up with you, but you were busy flirting with some random woman and so didn't notice."

"Very believable," he said. "And your narrative flow is quite enjoyable. Have you been taking writing classes? There's definite improvement over the last time—"

"Terry."

"What?"

"Shut up."

"Take it easy, Croft, I only want to kill you."

"Can we discuss that later? I'm in the midst of a fine expository monologue here."

"Carry on."

"Thank you. As I was saying, they caught up with you, but you didn't notice. So they hit you over the head with a brick. However, it is at this point that things begin to differ from the norm."

"Oooh, intrigue," said Sheridan, leaning forward with a great show of perkiness.

"Because, you see, it was a this point that they got their first good look at you. And several people from several governments with several reasons they wanted you dead suddenly decided that you were far too pretty to be killed in so callous a manner; and so they called me to come and pick you up. Which I did, despite my misgivings, because as you recall, I had left you for dead when we last met. I wasn't too keen on the notion of picking up a zombie, even a sexy Scottish one, and so that is why I came armed with a gun— which I see you have stolen."

"Very observant of you," said Sheridan commendingly.

"Not really," said Croft. "You've got it pointed at my head."

"As you so aptly stated," said Sheridan, "when last we met, it turned out that you killed me and then left me there to rot."

"Here to rot."

"What?"

"I left you here to rot. Have you not noticed that we're back in the Cradle of Life?"

"Didn't look around much, actually," said Sheridan, "was busy waking up, banging my head, and delivering off-the-cuff death threats. Tell me, love, why we're back in this awful place? I mean, really, this is one cave that could do with some redecorating. A little Feng Shui."

"Because," said Croft coolly, going cross-eyed as she attempted to gaze down the muzzle of the gun, "I like the idea of things coming full circle. I thought you would appreciate the poetic irony of it all."

"As I do, let me assure you. And now shall we contemplate the possibilities of me impressing what exactly poetic irony is on you and killing you as we sit here?"

It took Croft a moment to meander through that sentence, but "killing" was one word she understood.

"Look, Sheridan," she began.

"Don't try and reason with me. It won't work."

"But—"

"And no buts either," warned Sheridan. Reminded by this, he checked to see that his pants were riding correctly and was well pleased with the result; or rather, well pleased to find that he wasn't actually wearing any but looked just fine anyhow.

"Sheridan," said Croft, her voice going low and sultry, "lets get married and have little big-lipped babies."

Sheridan stared at her for a moment.

"You really are the most inappropriate person on earth," he said, and shot her.

Some time later he wandered off out of the cave, waltzing into the sunset. Many years later he made history as the first man ever to play golf on Pluto.

But that is then, and this is now.

And Lara Croft is dead.

Lucky for her this is the Cradle of Life—


End file.
